It Really Shouldn't Matter
by tigbunholic
Summary: Barnaby's favorite hero has always been Wild Tiger, which is why he keeps a poster of him buried in his sock drawer for moments such as these.


I wrote this for Galiko, who will probably never read it, but whatevs! xD Enjoy. Currently working on TTW48H. Bear with me, please.

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He's seventeen, almost an adult, so it really shouldn't matter.

He opens the front door and steps inside. Mr. Maverick is in the living room with the receiver end of a cordless phone nestled between his ear and neck. He smiles at Barnaby, picks up a glass half full of brown liquid and ice cubes, brings it to his lips, and takes a sip.

Barnaby waves at him and gracefully strolls through the living room. On his way past his adoptive guardian, he notices that Mr. Maverick is wearing his shoes, which means that he'll be going out soon. Barnaby finds this information comforting. He really does like to be alone for what he has planned.

He practically hops up the stairs, taking them two by two. His backpack flops against his backside, the books inside spanking him for having such wicked thoughts, needs, and desires. He gets a rush from the feeling, craving for something harder, _wishing_ that his gray slacks and designer underwear were gone so he could feel the abrasive material rubbing against his bare ass.

When Barnaby finally reaches his room, he steps inside, shuts the door, and locks it. He carelessly tosses his backpack to the floor, relieving the tension in his shoulders from the weight of being an advanced student.

Moments later, he's mostly undressed, wearing nothing but his shirt—starched and pressed and bright white. The color brings out the dazzling green desperation in his eyes. The shirt is loose enough for him to slide his hand beneath it and pinch a nipple. He likes the way it feels when he does that. The mixture of pleasure and pain seems to somehow be connected with his cock, which twitches and strains harder against his boxers. Barnaby lowers his hand, palms the lump there, wraps his fingers around it and _squeezes_ it hard enough to make himself softly cry out.

He hears footsteps, freezes, and calls down a goodbye to Mr. Maverick who tells him that he'll be gone for a couple of hours. When he hears the familiar sound of Mr. Maverick's car pulling out of the driveway, Barnaby moves across his bedroom. His feet pad along the plush carpet, sinking into it, the fibers massaging his soles and tickling his heels.

He reaches his dresser and opens the second drawer from the top. He's greeted by rows of socks neatly rolled and positioned perfectly. His brushes his hand over them—cotton and nylon gliding across his fingertips—before digging his hand beneath them. He ruins the neatness and order, turning his sock drawer into nothing more than a chaotic mess of black, white, navy, and gray.

He feels the smooth surface of laminate and knows that he has found what he's looking for without ever having to look down to conform it. He pulls it out of the drawer, rescuing it from its grave and gently places it down on his bed. He doesn't want a single crease or bend in his treasure.

Lowering himself to his knees, he leans down and pokes his head under the bed. His head now only a few inches above the floor, he searches for the small bottle lotion that he has replaced with lubricant several days ago. Mr. Maverick never really comes into his room, so Barnaby has no reason to hide it. It's usually just shame that forces him to pick up the bottle and chuck it under the bed after he's committed the act.

Barnaby eyes the bottle in between two shoe boxes and he has to lie flat in order to reach it. He groans when he's pressed against the floor, the carpet caressing his thighs. A part of him hates himself for how much he wants this, for how long he's thought about it, looked forward to it.

He's been doing this every day for three weeks now.

Long, slender, fingers roll the bottle toward his palm and he grips it in triumph. Eagerly, he pushes himself up to his feet and crawls into bed. He spreads his legs wide, creamy skin and toned caves making the shape of a 'V.' He places the sealed image between his legs, green eyes staring down intensely at the amber ones staring back at him.

_Wild Tiger_.

Barnaby doesn't know how much he's dreamed about this particular hero. He can't remember how many times he's stared at this image, admiring the way white and blue clung to covered muscles. He imagines his hand trailing down Tiger's thigh, caressing it, squeezing it. He wants to tear off the suit with his teeth, exposing the skin beneath it. Barnaby gazes at Tiger's lips and tries to imagine how they taste. Sweet, he decides, like honey or caramel.

Barnaby draws his legs back, bending them. He moves the poster closer with one hand and pulls his cock though the opening in his boxers with the other. He pumps some of the lubricant into his hand and tosses the bottle onto the floor. Licking his lips, he focuses on the sensation of his slick hand stroking, jerking, and gripping him until he's panting.

He hopelessly imagines that it's Tiger's hand pumping him. He wants to close his eyes, but if he does, the image will disappear. Instead he continues to stare down, eyes threatening to shut while he visualizes Tiger's mouth around him, warm and wet and _sucking_ him. His heels dig into the bed and his toes curl to the point where they almost cause cramps in his feet. He thrusts upward, forcing his cock deeper into the hero's mouth, wanting Tiger to take all of him, to taste every inch of his cock, drain him of every bit of tension in his body, mind, and heart. They're connected, him and Tiger. They share the same power. But Barnaby wants more than that. He wants a physical connection with his favorite hero, a mental connection, a _sexual_ one.

Those eyes are still staring at him, demanding attention and pulling him from his body. His hand speeds up, a blue light illuminating from it. This is the only time he allows himself to lose control, when it's just him and Tiger—Tiger accepts him, _understands_ him.

He startles himself when he shouts, jerks his hips, and spills onto the poster of Wild Tiger. He aims for Tiger's face, his mouth, chest, and abs. His eyes are closed now and he doesn't want to open them, not really, but he does anyway. Wild Tiger is still staring up at him, covered in Barnaby's cum, still grinning that same familiar grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Barnaby knows that type of smile. He's perfected it.

Barnaby is still looking at the cum covered poster when the guilt he's grown accustomed to attempts to set in. He unbuttons his shirt, pulls it off, and cleans off the poster of Wild Tiger. He knows he should feel disgusted in himself. Wild Tiger is an admirable hero and surely not someone who would appreciate having cum dumped all over him. He protects the citizens of Sternbild and Barnaby should respect that.

But Barnaby's seventeen, still a minor, so it really shouldn't matter.


End file.
